World's Greatest Marksman
by AgentAmerica9
Summary: When Clint Barton's father is falsely accused of murder, Clint tries to find the truth- only to be framed for murder himself when the killer targets his brother. Then he meets Natasha Romanov, a defected spy from an elite Russian kill squad that now wants her dead. Can Clint and Natasha untangle the deadly web of intrigue and live through it? Sets in my Earth-3117 universe.
1. Chapter 1

Viktor Uvarov had killed a lot of people for his country, but he had never done anything like this.

He'd trusted Natasha. He'd thought she was wholeheartedly devoted to the cause.

He was wrong.

At first, the idea of eliminating her troubled him. Viktor had no trouble killing men, but he always felt a twinge of guilt when his target was a woman- even if she was as notorious and deadly as the Black Widow. But he soon got over his qualms, reminding himself that Natalia Romanova had betrayed her country for the ridiculous notion of freedom that ensnared so many blind followers in its alluring trap.

As Viktor looked out the window of his private jet, he vowed that he would kill Natasha. He knew he could, but he also knew it would be his most difficult assignment yet. If anyone could outrun Leviathan, it would be one of its own members.

Startled by a sudden feeling of sinking, Viktor realized that his plane was landing. He felt the jolt of the landing gear extending, and the runway of Des Moines International Airport grew closer and closer until the aircraft touched down with a familiar _thump._

A minute later, Viktor was climbing down to the tarmac. He reached the ground, where a black Mercedes-Benz awaited him. Its driver opened the back door of the vehicle, and Viktor sat down on the luxury sedan's soft leather seat, relaxing. The driver returned to his seat and the car began its journey to the small town of Waverly, a hundred and forty miles away.

Russia's Main Intelligence Directorate, the GRU, had traced Natasha Romanov to Waverly and called on Leviathan, their ultra-elite kill squad, to take care of the problem. So Leviathan's leader, Colonel Vasili Dassaiev, had chosen Viktor for the job, sending him on a flight from Moscow to New York, and from there to Des Moines. Now here Viktor was, headed to the tiny town that the Black Widow, for some reason, was in. He didn't really care why she was there; he just cared about making her pay for her treason.

And when Viktor Uvarov wanted to make someone pay, they would pay.

Hawkeye*Hawkeye*Hawkeye

Before I became a superhero and started battling villains obsessed with world domination, death and destruction, I had a stressful life.

I've always been a simple guy- laid-back, black and white- but what one goes through doesn't always reflect one's personality. For instance, when I decided to aid a defected Russian assassin in escaping another Russian assassin who was trying to kill her, things weren't always black and white- and certainly not laid-back.

Let me start at the beginning of this story. That's always a good idea, isn't it? Well, here it is:

My name is Clint Barton. I'm from Waverly, Iowa, and I grew up in a family that, at first, did pretty well financially. Just out of college, I still lived with my parents and older brothers, Barney and Max, on a good-sized estate. It was only when my father got arrested that we ended up in a shack in the worst neighborhood in Bremer County.

My dad, Christopher Barton, was a prominent chemist regarded by the Iowa medical community as one of the best in the state. But everything changed when he was implicated in the murder of a colleague. I knew he was innocent; my father was a man of high moral standing. People tried to tell me that you can never really know a person, and I guess there's some truth to that- that you can never pinpoint with one hundred percent accuracy what someone is really thinking.

But I knew my father. He was an honest, God-fearing, loving family man. He wasn't perfect; he was human; but he wouldn't commit murder. I knew that in my heart; I didn't doubt it.

But the judge and jury did.

So Dr. Christopher Barton was convicted of the first-degree murder of Dr. Myron MacLain and sentenced to life in prison without the possibility of parole.

Hawkeye*Hawkeye*Hawkeye

"Clint, get the door," my brother Barney yelled from the couch right next to the door. It had been about a year since Dad's trial, and things were a lot harder without him.

"You get it, lazy bum," I replied.

"Ugh." Barney got up with a melodramatic groan and opened the door.

"Who is it?" I asked.

"An IRS agent."

 _Great mounds of joy!_ I thought as I walked to the door. "You come to take away our house?" I asked the government weasel. He was short and scrawny, with oversized glasses.

"Long story short, yes," the IRS man replied.

"At least you're being honest," I said. "Better than most IRS agents."

I expected the man to get mad, but his face didn't change. That kind of made sense; I doubted the guy had a soul.

My mother ran to the door. "What's going on?" she asked frantically.

The IRS man handed her a piece of paper. Her already-tired-looking face went pale as she scanned the document.

It was then that the full force of the situation hit me: _We're being evicted because we've been unable to pay taxes. We're going to lose this house that I grew up in._

No one said anything for a minute. Fire raged inside me. _This is all because Dr. MacLain's killer framed Dad! This isn't right! He should still be here, not rotting in a prison cell he doesn't belong in!_

I wanted to say all of those things, but I kept quiet. There was nothing I could do… _or was there?_


	2. Chapter 2

I parked my dark blue 1994 Mustang in the parking lot of the Bremer County Sheriff's Office. BCSO was a small force, with less than twenty deputies total, so it was easy for me to get hold of who I was looking for: Detective Alan O'Neil.

O'Neil, the sole detective at BCSO, was the man who had been in charge of my father's case. If anyone could help me find the truth, he could.

"How can I help you, Clint?" O'Neil asked casually, spinning in his chair to face me as I entered his office. I'd been there plenty of times during the investigation into my father's alleged crime, and I was on a first-name basis with the detective.

"I want to know who really killed Dr. MacLain."

O'Neil sighed. Pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, Clint, I'm not saying I'm one hundred percent convinced that your father was the killer, but he was convicted. As far as the court is concerned, the case is closed."

"So you're just going to give up," I said. "You're not sure if he's really guilty or not, but you're just going to let it go because he was convicted. Don't you care about finding the truth? I thought you were a detective."

"Look, Clint," he replied, "I don't know for sure that your dad killed Myron MacLain, but it is the most likely conclusion. The court decided it was true, so who am I to argue?"

"The court is comprised of _human beings!"_ I shot back. "They can _make mistakes!_ And you just say that you'll go with what they say because it's most likely. Well, let me tell you this: the truth is out there. Somewhere, it's just waiting to be found by people who are willing to look for it. I don't care about what's 'most likely'; I care about what actually happened! And I'm going to find out!"

O'Neil didn't reply. He just gave a long, tired sigh.

"Look," I said, "I'm going to find the truth one way or another. Do you want to help me, or do you want to idly sit by while the real killer might still be out there, laughing at you for falling for his setup?"

That seemed to get O'Neil's attention. He sat up, and gave me this look- almost as if he wanted to help but something was stopping him. "If you come up with something specific you want to look into concerning the case, let me know. I might- _might-_ be able to do something."

I nodded. "Thanks."

"Sure."

Hawkeye*Hawkeye*Hawkeye

Natasha Romanov watched out the window of the subject's house as the car parked in the driveway.

He was home.

Natasha knew that if he saw her, then SHIELD's entire investigation would come to nothing. He would wipe every bit of data he had, leaving no scrap of evidence.

But at the same time, while Natasha was tempted to slip away and make sure the subject didn't catch on to the fact that SHIELD was investigating him, she also needed to download some of the information on his computer. If she could find anything incriminating, it could potentially free an innocent man as well as bust open a covert terrorist operation.

Going as fast as she could, Natasha slipped the USB flash drive into the subject's computer. Navigated to his file storage. Started downloading like crazy.

She heard the sound of the subject turning the key in the lock. It was time to go.

She silently hurried down the hall, toward the back door. Arriving at it, she unlocked it and opened it, careful not to make a sound. She slipped out the door and shut it behind her equally quietly.

Then she took off running.

And realized her mistake.

Hawkeye*Hawkeye*Hawkeye

The man who'd killed Dr. Myron MacLain, and framed Dr. Christopher Barton for it, thought he heard the faintest sound of someone shutting the back door.

Probably just his imagination.

Still, he went to his computer room. If anyone discovered what was on his hard drive, he'd go to prison for the rest of his life. He couldn't risk that.

He looked at his computer.

And almost screamed.

The screen showed all of his files. All those precious documents, out in the open.

Immediately, he began deleting every single one. If someone had planted a virus or was trying to post his secret files on the Internet, then maybe- just maybe- he could delete everything quickly enough to prevent being exposed.

But he doubted that was the case. The most likely scenario was that someone had downloaded his information on a flash drive.

He checked his Internet use. The last time shown was hours ago, so he could be sure the intruder hadn't gone online- unless there was some way to hide Internet use that he didn't know about, but it wasn't like search history that could just be deleted.

So that helped a little bit.

His secrets weren't out.

Yet.

But he had to find the intruder before they turned over the flash drive to the authorities- or to their boss, if they were FBI or SHIELD or something.

So his mission: Find the person who did this and take them out before they could expose him.

He could do this.

Hail Hydra.


	3. Chapter 3

I spent days trying to find a lead in the case of Dr. MacLain's murder, anything that might suggest that someone other than my father was guilty. However, I found nothing. The strange thing was, every time I tried to find out more about MacLain himself, I was unable to. I was like someone had deliberately hidden all the details on exactly what MacLain did.

So, a few days after my conversation with Detective O'Neil, I went to sleep in the cheap, shabby hotel room my family had been staying in ever since the IRS confiscated the house a few days ago.

"Good night," I told my mom and my brothers as I settled into a nice, comfy spot on the floor, right between one of the room's two beds and the wall. _Ah, the good life._ Max, the younger of my older brothers, shared a bed with Mom. I could have shared the other one with my oldest brother Barney, but I'd probably accidentally kill him while dreaming I was a master of kung fu, so I slept on the floor.

Hawkeye*Hawkeye*Hawkeye

I woke up the next morning, thinking about how nice and spacious a tiny shack would be. We'd been looking at one in hopes of renting it, but the details weren't worked out yet.

It was then that I realized I was not in the hotel room.

 _Where am I? What happened?_

I felt something in my hand. Looked at it. A knife, covered in blood.

And then I saw him.

Barney.

Lying on the ground next to me, a huge blood stain in his shirt.

I shouted his name. Felt for a pulse.

There was none.

I screamed.

Just then, a sheriff's patrol car pulled up, its lights flashing and sirens wailing. Three more arrived behind it.

I looked around and realized I was in the alley behind the hotel. "Help!" I shouted to Detective O'Neil as he stepped out of the lead patrol car. "Someone killed him!"

O'Neil and several officers drew their sidearms and aimed them directly at my chest. "Drop the knife, Clint!" he yelled.

Realizing I was still holding what was in all likelihood Barney's murder weapon, I let go of the knife and let it drop to the concrete.

Sheriff's deputies swarmed me, making me kneel and handcuffing me. "What's going on?" I asked, scared. "I didn't do it!"

I felt like I had been slapped in the face just when I was recovering from a punch to the gut. First my father was wrongfully convicted of murder, and then, only a minute earlier, I found out my brother was dead. And now they were saying I killed him!

"Clint Barton, you are under arrest for the murder of Barney Barton," said O'Neil. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be taken down and used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney present. If you don't have an attorney, the court can appoint one for you, if you so wish. Do you understand and acknowledge these rights?"

I nodded, unable to form any more words. My whole world had just come crashing down, and the sheriff's office thought I was to blame for it.


End file.
